Rory loved breakfast food. Well, our whole family eats a lot of breakfast food.
It’s not just for the morning!
When I would make pancakes, Rory would sit across the griddle from me and wait for the tiny pancakes. The little drips that happened as I poured each circle.
But Rory didn’t say “Pancakes”.
She said, “Pampakes.”
I remember Rory with each accidental drop.
Love you, baby girl.
I looked up the history of St. Patrick today. I wanted to learn more about the man we celebrate every year.
Among the things I learned, I ran across St. Patrick’s Breastplate. It’s a prayer. A beautiful prayer.
I love that it’s called a breastplate. The idea that our prayers are armor for us.
In the prayer, he repeats, “I arise today…”
Those words are poignant to me.
There are days that staying bed seems easier.
That getting out and facing the pain seems like too much.
But, I arise.
Everyday.
I arise.
And in the breastplate prayer, he details the ways he is given help.
“I arise today, through
The strength of heaven,
The light of the sun,
The radiance of the moon,
The splendor of fire,
The speed of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of the sea,
The stability of the earth,
The firmness of rock.
I arise today, through
God’s strength to pilot me,
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s shield to protect me.”
I have felt that.
I have felt my prayers and the prayers of others lift me. Guide me. Get me through days that were too painful to get through.
I’ve been inspired on how to help my boys.
I’m grateful that even during the times of my deepest despair, I have never felt utterly and completely alone.
Prayers and armor.
I think the two go hand in hand.
I’ve been having Rory memories pop into my mind the past week. I laugh and smile thinking of her. Then I cry. Well, bawl.
I’m happy to share one.
I was thinking about Rory’s funny toes.
They were zany, just like her.
Her toes were completely uneven.
I remember playing with them when I nursed her.
I always wondered if her toes will flatten out when she started walking.
They didn’t.
Then my thoughts went to the last time I held her feet in my hands.
Within the hour of her dying.
I rubbed her feet as she watched Angry Birds on TV.
I held onto them.
I miss those crooked toes.
They were attached to one of the most precious human beings I had the privilege to hold in my arms.
I went to Time Out of Women, an inspirational women’s conference, a couple of weeks ago. Michelle Schmidt was there. She is the wife of one of the Piano Guys, who made national news when their daughter, Annie, went missing in an Oregon forest a couple of years ago.
As she was telling their story of looking for Annie, she said that she would get “assurances.” Not assurances that Annie would be found alive. But assurances that Annie was okay on the other side.
Assurances.
I’ve been searching for that word for a while now.
I receive assurances. Assurances of two things.
First, it tells me Rory is okay.
That she’s happy.
That she visits us.
She’s still here.
But also good there.
It also tells me that I’m not forgotten.
In my grief.
In my despair.
In my missing.
It reminds me that I have loving Heavenly Parents.
It reminds me that I have people on the other side looking out for me.
A lot of times my assurances happen in snapshots. Just a quick view of her from time to time.
It happens in unexpected, quiet moments. Most of the time when I’m not even actively thinking of her. They never last long.
It’s like someone took a Live Photo and sent it to me.
Heavenly Live Photos.
Best Live Photo ever.
I’m so grateful for those assurances.
For the last little while I’ve been wanting to start a weekly series on how our family is living through grief.
We haven’t stopped living. There’s too much life left for Lance and I but especially our boys.
Starting at the beginning of January Dax started gymnastics competitions. Pre Rory’s death it was fun and all encompassing. I focused three to four months on his competitions, comparing scores and studying routines.
I have so much less energy for it.
And in all honesty, I feel bad about it.
But there’s really not much I can do. I show up. I support. I love. It’s what I can do.
To save some parental sanity, Dax is skipping Regionals this year. He’s a really good kid.
We’re so proud of how hard he works and all he has accomplished.
Here’s a little high bar from state last Saturday.
Rory Ann Moore Foundation 